


Little Doll

by curds_and_wheyface



Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Female!Loki - Freeform, First Time, Human AU, Incest, Pregnancy Kink, dub-con, ex-soldier!Thor, genderswapped Loki, general fuckedupness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-07 00:19:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8775682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curds_and_wheyface/pseuds/curds_and_wheyface
Summary: Loki moves in with her older half-brother, a man she barely knows.The dynamic between them quickly becomes unhealthy.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [umakoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/umakoo/gifts).



> Never thought I'd write a het Thorki fic but here we are. This one is pretty fucked up.
> 
> Discussed this idea briefly with [umakoo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/umakoo) and she liked it, so this one's for her. <3

Loki found out about Odin at seven years old. That the man with one eye who sometimes came to sit in the kitchen for an hour, who talked to her about her school work and her hobbies, who gave her pocket money and a pat on the head, was her father.

It didn't change anything. Not the frequency of his visits or what she called him - _Mr_ \- but her mother had wanted her to know.

She found out about Thor much later. Her father’s son by another woman, his wife. The legitimate child, older than Loki by nearly ten years.

So Laufey had been an affair, and Loki an accident.

An army boy, Odin had called Thor with a wave of his large hand. Not home much.

Loki didn't think of him often, her older brother, but when she had she’d always imagined him in khaki, with heavy boots and dog tags around his neck. Odin’s hair was long and white, like he'd been blonde in his youth, but she'd imagined Thor to be dark like her, like Laufey, and tall too. Odin probably had a type.

In her teens she surmised that Thor likely didn't know she existed - that he and his mother weren't privy to these brief visits, that Odin snuck away to see her.

But then, one visit when she was sixteen, Odin had brought him along. Her brother.

And he was tall, and wearing army greens and heavy boots like she’d always imagined, but he was also startlingly, beautifully blonde.

He hadn't seemed overly interested in her. Mid-twenties and fairly stoic, sitting in her kitchen. It was clear he'd been coerced into coming, perhaps he’d come for Odin’s sake, so the old man could see his two children beside each other for the first time.

The golden soldier and the mistake.

He'd hugged her as they left, just a loose, one-armed thing that probably meant nothing to him, but he’d smelled like sharp citrus and the sweat of a long journey, and it had lingered in her senses long after he was gone.

Odin had never hugged her.

Loki was smart, did well academically, got into her university of choice. Laufey told Odin they were worried about accommodation. His child support made her ineligible for dormitory subsidies, despite the fact that his contributions could legally be cut off once she reached eighteen.

No problem, Odin had said. Thor lives not far away from the school.

They’d met only that one time, two years prior, and yet somehow despite her initial reservations Laufey had eventually conceded it made sense.

Loki would be packed off to live alone with her older brother, an ex-army construction worker ten years her senior. A stranger.

~

Thor doesn't wear khaki now, but the heavy boots have stayed and the dog tags still rattle around his neck, tucked beneath his clothes.

He doesn't talk much.

He drinks.

Loki’s room is a nice enough size, comfortable. He said she could do whatever she liked with it, but she didn't bring much, just clothes and keepsakes, no furniture. The walls are kind of grey but that's okay, it's warm, he bought a new mattress for the double bed.

There’s a radiator in there, one in his room too, but in the living room they have a log fire. He keeps it stocked from a wood shed outside.

She's been cooking for both of them without asking, and he's been eating it. Not always with her - he's not always around - but whenever she leaves him something in the fridge she always comes back to find it gone the next morning.

He washes his own dishes.

He's still a stranger, but she kind of likes him.

So does Amora, her new friend from uni. He picked Loki up once in his truck when the snow was coming down hard, and Amora’s tongue had nearly frozen to the pavement.

Thor had looked back at her with dark eyes, hungry, mouth turned up just slightly at the corners.

For a moment it was like Loki didn't exist and she’d hated it, had rushed to get in beside him so they could leave.

She doesn't know why.

She's thought about it since, about Thor fucking Amora, both of them blonde and beautiful, what a perfect couple they'd be. Amora would talk in all of Thor’s silences, unlike Loki who can never work out what to say to him.

They exist in an odd sort of quiet; she studies while he watches television, she cooks while he chops wood.

They had some bathroom awkwardness at first - he’d used all the hot water one day without thinking, she’d left her clothes in her bedroom another day and had to shuffle past his large, sleepy frame in just a small towel.

They've worked it out now.

Odin calls to ask her how it is and she tells him it's fine. She mentions the new mattress and the lift home, the thoughtful stuff.

She doesn't mention Thor’s drinking.

It's an ex-army thing, she thinks. Too much money and not enough to do with his time, nothing to focus on. Mostly it's just a couple of beers in the evening, bottle clutched in his fist as he watches whatever’s on TV.

Sometimes he comes home wobbling, slurring.

Sometimes he doesn't come home at all.

-

She’s in bed, blanket tucked up beneath her chin, trying to sleep. It's past midnight and she hasn't seen Thor since she left for class this morning, hasn't heard from him.

She’s been living here three months and has a total of five texts from him on her phone.

She doesn't like the house when it's empty, doesn't like how it creaks and groans as the floorboards cool.

She's just about managing to slip into a half-sleep when there’s a thud on the front door. Loki sits bolt upright in bed, eyes wide.

Then she hears the keys rattling.

She's in little pyjama shorts and a vest top, can't find her dressing gown in the dark, but Thor’s belting on the door again and calling her name.

It's snowing when she opens the door and he mumbles something about his fingers being too frozen for the keys, but he's rocking slightly from side to side and there's a beer bottle in his hand.

She's still full of adrenaline from the loud noise so she doesn't move out of his way right away. He bodily shifts her from the doorway, cold hands on her waist.

She stands where he left her as he moves inside, watching his back. He can't seem to find his zip, up beneath his chin, so she steps into his space and does it for him, pushing his coat off his shoulders and down his arms, pressing it against his chest.

He lets it drop and takes hold of her hand instead, and she looks up at him, shaking. She’s about to tell him she's going back to bed.

Then he kisses her, closed-mouthed but not the kiss of a brother.

He's still got hold of her hand between them but he's gripping her by the back of the head too, holding her in, his mouth a bruising force against hers, and she struggles to get away, ends up beating his chest with the heel of her fisted palm.

He lets go and laughs, takes another swig, and then flops down onto the creaky old sofa, bottle sloshing.

The fire she lit earlier is just embers now, the room cold and unwelcoming. She stands behind him with her hand to her tingling lips and thinks about leaving him there to freeze.

She doesn't, of course.

His eyes are closed when she rounds the sofa but he opens them slowly, watching her. She takes hold of his wrist and tries to pull him up, a fruitless effort. She couldn't lift him if there were two of her.

“I need my boots off,” he says, a deep rumble.

He lets her take the bottle from him - mostly empty - and place it down on the ground. She slips to her knees to unlace his boots with shaking fingers. The laces are stiff from the cold, the knots tight, and it takes her longer than she'd like. He's no help - doesn't even lift his feet as she pulls the boots off.

His knees are wide open with her between them, and when she glances up at him he's got that look on his face, dark and hungry, the same look he’d given Amora. Only this time his eyes are trained on Loki.

“C’mere,” he says, crooking his fingers.

She goes, even though she thinks she shouldn't.

He takes her face in both of his hands and she braces herself to be kissed again, but then he angles her head down and tilts his hips up to rub the harsh denim crotch of his jeans against her mouth and chin.

She's too shocked to do anything, heart thumping hard and fast, heat suddenly overcoming her in the freezing room, embarrassment and outrage and something else she doesn't want to put a name to.

“Fuck,” he growls, letting go of her to fumble with the buckle of his belt. Khaki green, army. “Need you to suck me.”

She loses all of her breath in a rush.

“Thor-” She shakes her head, but then his zipper is coming down with one hand and the other is gripping at her wrist. Her mouth is dry, her fingers trembling as he pulls her hand closer.

“Shh,” he soothes, freeing his cock; hard and thick, the tip peaking shiny and red from the hood of his foreskin.

She's lightheaded. Afraid. _Aroused_. A weird thought flits through her mind that it looks angry, like him.

“Be a good girl,” he murmurs, lifting her hand to him. She jumps at the first touch, the unexpected heat and texture. She's never touched anybody like this before, didn't expect the contrary hard-softness of it, the smooth glide of foreskin as he makes her stroke him. His cock is thick, especially at the base, and hot, with a prominent vein down the underside. She can't take her eyes off it.

“Ah- that’s good,” he grits his teeth, tipping his head back against the old leather, lifting his hips into each downwards motion of her hand.

She feels sick and scared and awed, thrilled by the sound he makes as she tightens her fist almost by accident. He seems to grow harder still, impossibly, and then he drops his chin again and reaches for her.

“Come on,” he says, tugging her in first by the elbow and then, when she's within reach, the back of the neck. “Use your mouth.”

She's not sure why she doesn't fight him, why she doesn't tell him she's never done this. She just lets him pull her close until the leaking head of his cock is sliding against her lips.

“Lick,” he says on a single, shuddered breath.

He smells musky, tastes like salt when she does as she's told. Salt and something bitter.

She doesn't get a chance to complain, he tells her to cover her teeth and then he's encouraging her down, filling her mouth with his thick cock, with his taste. She tries suckling at it gently, like a lollipop, and he groans, twists his fingers in her hair.

“You're-” he huffs out, almost a laugh. “You're such a sweet little…”

She looks up at him through her lashes and whatever he was about to say, whatever weird affection was about to escape him, is lost.

“Let me fuck your mouth,” he says instead, angling her face just-so.

She tries to pull back. She's seen this in porn, gagging and drooling and struggling for breath, she doesn't want to.

But then he soothes her, shushes her, pets her hair. “I won't go deep. Just your mouth. Let me.”

As soon as she gives in he’s moving his hips, cockhead sliding along her tongue. She’s salivating around him, pre-cum hitting her tastebuds each time he pulls back.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Look up at me again.”

It's perverse. She could be just any mouth if he closed his eyes but he wants to see her.

When she lifts her eyes to meet his a tear slips down her cheek. He only swipes it away with his thumb and carries on.

His breathing gets more and more laboured, his movements quicker. Once or twice he goes too deep, too close to the opening of her throat, but each time he pulls back and manages to control his thrusts again.

Her jaw begins to tire, her knees aching dully against the hard floor, but before she can pull away to breathe, take a moment, his body seems to tighten up.

He's staring into her eyes when he comes, lips parted and hands tight around her skull. He fills her mouth, pulse after pulse, eyes only slipping closed right at the end.

His fingers loosen, his hips dropping back to the sofa, and she scrambles up immediately and rushes to the kitchen, spitting his spend out into the sink.

She leaves him there in the living room, scrambling to her room and locking herself in. Panic and disgust settle heavy in her stomach. She can taste him on her tongue and she gags, wishing she’d stopped to brush her teeth. There's no way she's going back out there.

There's a flat, half-empty can of coke on the window sill, warm from the radiator beneath it. She gulps it all down in one go.

She's soaking wet between her legs.

-

In the morning when she wakes up he's already gone, the kettle hot and toast crumbs all over the counter.

She can't eat.

She wipes up his mess and heads to class, not bothering with make-up.

“Jesus, who died?” Amora says when she sees her. Loki says nothing as she lowers herself into the seat and Amora suddenly sits up. “Oh fuck, did someone actually die?”

It's only later, in the bathroom, that Loki sees how much paler than usual she is.

-

He's there when she gets home but he doesn't say anything about it. She doesn't know if she's relieved or not.

She cooks, like she usually would, and he stays out of her way.

She hopes he's not going to eat with her but then he drags the chair out across from her at the table.

They eat in silence, cutlery scraping against ceramic, until he clears his throat.

“You look pretty like that,” he says then, kind of a grunt really. She can't look at him. “Without all that stuff on your face.”

He's watching her, so she nods down at her plate.

He takes another loud bite. “You look kind of like a doll. What are those dolls called? You know the ones? The pale ones…”

“Porcelain,” she supplies, barely above a whisper.

She makes the mistake of glancing up at him and he's wearing a smile; soft, but like the kiss it's not brotherly affection. There's something else in it.

She doesn't finish her food, and when she goes to her room he follows her. It's not predatory exactly, but he doesn't ask for permission to enter either.

It feels much smaller with him in it.

He backs her up against the wall by her bed, kisses the corner of her mouth, and his buckle clangs as he unfastens his belt.

Loki squeezes her eyes closed, swallows despite her tight throat. She wants to ask what he's doing, what they're doing, but then he takes her hand in his, begins to stroke himself to hardness using their interlocked fingers.

“I know you'd never sucked a cock,” he says, and a high-pitched sound escapes her tight throat at the memory of it, at the _mention_ of it, so blatant. He mistakes her embarrassment, thinks she's ashamed of her inexperience. “No, no, it was good. You were so good.”

She throbs between her legs at the praise.

His beard rubs high on her cheek as he whispers, like it's a secret, “Have you done this though? Ever touched anyone? Tell me.”

Her lips are pressed together and squeezes her eyes tighter shut. She can pretend he's someone else, that he's some boy she met in class or the friend of one of Amora’s conquests.

Thor won't allow that, though, won't let her imagine he's anyone else. “Tell me, little doll.”

The nickname tugs at her stomach and she offers the tiniest shake of her head.

He sighs, pleased, and begins to drag her fist up and down at a faster pace, leaning all of his weight against her as his hips twitch and thrust.

“I knew that.” His voice sounds broken, breathy and tight. He hums, nudges her face with his nose, finds her mouth with his.

She lets him kiss her, opens to accept his tongue and his stuttered breaths as he uses her hand to chase his orgasm.

By the time he pulls back her chest is burning for air and his fist is frantic around hers.

“I'm gonna be your first everything,” he says, and it sounds worryingly like a promise. “You’ll let me, won't you? You'll spread your legs and give me your sweet little cunt.”

A gasp hiccups out of her throat and she can't tell if she's crying, thighs clenching around the uncomfortable wetness in her knickers.

“I'll fuck you so sweet, little doll, I promise, I won't hurt you. We’ll go slow. I'll be nice. I'll take care of you.”

Pretty words said through clenched teeth, and then he goes still, cock throbbing in her hand as he comes.

She opens her eyes then but all she can see is his shoulder as he holds her still with all his weight.

He huffs and grunts softly in her ear, rocking up into her fist a few more times as his cock twitches out the last of his come.

She wipes her hand on her own jeans when he lets go of her, looks down to see the rest of his come on her t-shirt.

“Sorry,” he says, but he doesn't sound it, and already he's hooking his fingers under the hem to pull it over her head.

“Thor,” she says tightly, upset with him. “I can do it.”

“Let me-” he grunts, and once he's abandoned her t-shirt on to the floor he wraps his arms around her again.

She struggles more convincingly this time, tries to turn in his hold, but he lifts her from the ground. She yelps as he throws her down onto the bed almost hard enough to wind her, terrified he's about to make good on his promise to take her virginity. Surely he can't? Not after-

But then he drops to his knees and tugs her by the ankles until her backside is hanging off the bed, and heat rises afresh to her face. Her jeans are tight but he gets them off with a couple of quick yanks.

“Thor, no-” she begs, dropping her hands between her legs as he parts her knees with rough hands. “Please-”

He's got more than twice the strength she has.

Shouldering his way in between her thighs he breathes out, reverent, and slides two fingers up the soaked material before him.

“Look how wet you are,” he murmurs, rubbing in a circle where her clit is. She whines and he leans in, shushes her like he's in the habit of doing.

He licks a hot, open-mouthed kiss there, tongue sweeping along the cotton. It feels so good, so _wrong_ , like nothing she could've imagined.

“Can I take these off?” he says, wording it like a question even as he's hooking his fingers in the band and pulling them down.

She's beyond trying to stop him.

Deep down, she doesn't want to stop him.

He leaves her underwear dangling from one ankle so she's only in her bra, with her brother kneeling between her legs and breathing hot against her.

He licks at her with the flat of his tongue and they both moan. Using his finger and thumb he parts her, licks her again. His beard rubs harsh between her inner thighs but his seeking tongue counters it, quick little licks and flat drags that make her squirm, pleasure curling outwards from her very core.

He murmurs a curse and then fastens his lips over her, sucking greedily like he can't get enough.

She cries out, stomach twisting with the pleasure and shame of it.

“You taste like honey,” he says, lifting his mouth away to drag three fingers through her folds.

His fingers, shiny with her wetness, rub across her chin and lips, force their way inside her mouth.

“See how sweet you are.”

It's not so different from getting a mouthful of his come; viscous against her tongue and a little salty, though much less bitter. It's nothing like honey, but she sucks his fingers anyway, like he wants her to.

He hums, and lowers his mouth to her again.

She tries to say his name but her throat is too tight, her chest heaving. Instead she throws her hand across her eyes and sobs.

He sucks and licks at her like he's hungry for her, greedy and without finesse, laving her clit with long licks and open-mouthed kisses. His moans vibrate against her and she can barely stand it.

She jumps when he presses two fingers inside her without warning, sinking them deep into her. It hurts but that gets lost in the pleasure of his mouth, and when he starts to fuck her with them he goes slow.

“Fuck,” he groans, breath against her clit. “You're so wet for me, little doll. Bet you could take my cock right now.”

She whines ‘no’ and he laughs, goes back to teasing her clit with his tongue. She squeezes down around his fingers and he seems to take that as permission to pick up his pace. She's making awful, embarrassing sounds, not only her gasping sobs but the slick, sucking rhythm of his fingers sliding in and out of her.

“Lift your head,” he demands. “Look at me.”

She shakes her head no and he pinches at the back of her thigh.

“Loki,” he says, stern. She's not sure he's ever actually said her name. “Look at me.”

Her head feels heavy, her neck aching, but she looks down at him, past the plain black cotton of her bra. His beard and chin are wet, his lips pink and slick. He licks them with his eyes locked on hers and she shudders out a breath.

“You like that?” he keeps on fucking her with his fingers, shoulder shifting as he does. “Like your brother eating your pussy?”

She hates him, hates that he’s said it. There's no pretence now.

“Tell me.”

She wishes he’d put his mouth on her again, she's so close, needs just that little push. But he’s not going anywhere until she says it.

She sucks in a breath. “I like it.”

“No,” he shakes his head.

Again there are tears in the corners of her eyes. She’d beg him not to make her say it if she thought it would do any good. “I like my brother eating my...my…”

He smiles, rubs his beard against her soft mound. “Your sweet, wet cunt.”

She can't breathe. Even if she could she wouldn't say that, but he seems content enough to have said it himself.

He maintains eye contact as he licks out at her clit again.

After that he seems to redouble his efforts to make her come, angling his fingers upwards he begins to rub, hard strokes with the pads of his fingers that make her legs twitch with jolts of pleasure. She wants to reach down and stop him, overwhelmed, but he keeps at it, watching her. She's sweating, still struggling for breath, climbing, climbing, and then he fastens his lips over her clit and sucks.

Her back arches, fingers and toes curling, and she's at his mercy as she spasms through her orgasm, feeling herself clench tight around his fingers in throbbing pulses that throw heat all through her pelvis and abdomen.

She’s never come so hard.

He climbs up her body in a rush, fingers still inside her. When he kisses her, beard soaked and mouth tasting like her cunt, she kisses him back, wraps her arms around him. He pulls his fingers free then, tugs her legs around his waist and rubs his hardening cock against her where she’s slick and sensitive.

She lets him, holds him, needing to be tethered to something because she's losing her grip on herself.

-

She expects that he’ll fuck her in the dead of night, come into her room while she's half-asleep and vulnerable, coerce himself inside her.

Instead it happens on a Sunday afternoon.

She's wearing his thick woollen pullover because she doesn't own anything nearly as warm.

It's snowing heavily outside and he comes in from the cold with a red nose and frost clinging to his beard and hair, his jacket dark in patches where the snow has soaked in. He's filled the sack up with wood.

She's got the fire burning and he comes over to it, throwing off his jacket and dumping it on the ground.

Dutifully she picks it up and hangs it on its hook behind the door.

For the first time in days he's not watching her, his back to the room as he kneels there, hands palm-out in front of the flames.

Even slumped as he is he's huge, shoulders nearly as wide as the fireplace and thick arms forcing the flannel of his shirt to stretch at the muscles. His wet hair is curled against his neck, soaking a dark patch into the back of his shirt.

She wants to tell him that he's blocking the heat from reaching the rest of the room, but instead she moves to kneel beside him.

Her lips part but, despite all they've done, small-talk still evades her. Instead she focuses on the red knots of his knuckles, the blunt tips of his nails, ragged like he's been biting them.

She's not sure why she does it, but she reaches for his hands, closes her own around them. She means to warm them, but her own hands are half the size, delicate and pale against the rough red of his cold skin.

She feels silly, insignificant in comparison to his bulk, but when she chances a look at him he's staring back, his expression entirely unfamiliar.

Her instinct is to take herself into the kitchen, to busy herself making him some tea, but she's frozen beneath that look.

He slips one of his hands free from her and wraps his fingers around her wrist. He could snap her bone like a twig if he wanted but he's gentle. She jumps as a log in the fire cracks, and for a moment there's a wry smile visible on his face in the orange glow.

He moves slow like he's handling a skittish animal, pulling her hand to his face to cup his cold, bristly jaw. His eyes slip closed as he leans into the touch, lets out a breath.

Then he pulls her in by the waist, lifting her into his lap with ease. His jeans are unpleasantly damp beneath her and she shivers as he cups her face too.

His lips are cold but his tongue is warm as he licks into her mouth, forceful and sure. He knows now she won't fight him, knows she’ll surrender and wrap herself around him.

She does, and the minute her arms are around his neck he tips her backwards, lowers her on her back to the rug, one hand beneath her head.

He doesn't say anything. She stares up at him breathing hard while he unfastens her jeans and pulls them down her legs, knickers coming straight off with them this time. He drops them haphazardly and she has just enough awareness of their surroundings to nudge them away from the fire with her foot.

She grips the bottom of the pullover but he shakes his head, a quick, tight no.

“Leave that on.”

She lets go, drops her hands to her sides and watches him.

He spits into his hand, crude, and slips it down between her legs, rubbing cupped fingers over her. She presses up into it and he smiles.

“That's it, little doll,” he says, brushing her bottom lip with the thumb of his other hand. It's the first thing he's said to her since he came in.

It's not fair that he's still fully dressed when she's not, that he always has the upper hand, so she reaches for the buttons of his flannel shirt. He lets her, huffs out a little laugh when he thumbs her clit and her fingers fumble on the buttons.

He lets her pull his undershirt off too, despite the cold.

She’s seen his chest before, only once or twice. Broad and muscled, and a healthy colour despite living in a cold climate. Her hand looks pale as she touches him, smoothing her flat palm down his pectoral, over his heart, and further down to the ridges of his abs.

He unfastens his own jeans while she explores with her fingers, almost shy about it beneath his heated gaze.

He only shoves his jeans down to mid-thigh.

“Told you, didn't I?” he says, stroking himself to full hardness, eyes focused down where she's parted her legs for him. “Told you I’d be your first.”

She doesn't answer him.

Her eyes have caught on his cock and the reality hits her that he means to put it inside of her.

He sees her staring but he only seems proud, smug even.

“I'll get you wet for me,” he assures her, and then slips his other hand back between her legs, going immediately for her clit with his thumb. It's too dry and she shifts, huffs her displeasure, and so he gives up on stroking himself in favour of leaning down to split directly between her legs.

He uses one finger at first, for which she's grateful despite the discomfort it still causes. He's in too much of a rush to be mindful of her nerves, of the cold, how it all conspires to slow her arousal.

“Thor,” she says, but when he looks at her she can't ask for what she wants; his mouth, his tongue.

He nods, but he's misread the message and lays himself down between her legs, hard cock heavy against her hip. He rocks, shifts until he catches between her legs.

She winces in anticipation before he's even anywhere near her and his mouth twitches.

“Don't be scared,” he says.

Easy for him to say.

But when he reaches down to take himself in hand he does nudge the head of his cock against her clit, rocks there a few times, pleased when she lets out a little moan.

Then he aims himself lower and begins to press inside.

The stretch is uncomfortable, a burning pull as she tries to accommodate his girth. She's not sure she can take him, not sure she’s wet enough, but he pushes on regardless and she says nothing.

“Relax,” he tells her, taking hold of her hand and guiding it down between them. “Rub your clit for me.”

She's wet there, spit and his pre-cum and perhaps her own arousal too, and it helps a little. It helps enough.

And then, unexpectedly, she seems to open up for him and he sinks in a few more inches with ease, almost like she's sucking him in. Her inner walls cling to him, holding on, and she whines when he tries to pull back.

He manages to pull out though, and the friction isn't entirely pleasant. He shushes her once more as she cries out, but she's soothed by his next press inside despite the pain that remains.

“Just stay,” she says, gripping his biceps desperately. She's trying to say _give me a moment, keep still_ , but all she can do is repeat the words, “just stay, just stay.”

This time he doesn't misunderstand her though, and once he's seated fully inside -so deep, so full - he stills.

He's watching her face, observing her carefully as she gets used to him, staying still even as she hesitantly clenches down on the intrusion inside her.

“Have to let me move, little doll,” he murmurs, lowering his face to nose at her cheek. “Let me fuck you nice and slow.”

She’s not sure, but she nods, and like promised he's slow. The force and drag of his cock moving in and out of her is uncomfortable but it doesn't remain unpleasant for long, and the friction that had hurt at first becomes good, buzzing through her slowly like a burn.

One of his hands slides beneath her thigh, lifting her leg until he can hook beneath her knee and pull her leg up high around his waist. It opens her up further for him, and when he thrusts again the soft nest of hair above his cock rubs against her clit.

A tight, pleased noise escapes her throat.

“You like that, little doll?” he says, leaning down to kiss her before she can answer.

He keeps fucking her like that, swallowing her moans with deep kisses. It's worse, somehow, to be kissed so intimately, but Loki kisses him back, threads her fingers into his damp hair.

“I'm going to take you away,” he grunts as he pulls away, his thrusts harder now. “I'm going to steal you, hide somewhere Dad won't find us. Somewhere nobody knows us. I’m going to fuck you like this every day, give you my come. Get you-”

He breaks off, fucks her deep and stays there, like he's overwhelmed by what he's saying. She's trembling, wide-eyed. She knows what he was about to say.

“You'd let me, wouldn't you?” he says as he starts to thrust again, slow and steady. “You'd let me put a baby in you.”

She turns her face away. She can imagine it; a small house in the middle of nowhere, fussing after him quietly like his obedient little wife, baby sleeping in the cot he built himself, giving herself to him whenever he wants her.

“You want that?” he asks, staring down at her, his blue eyes earnest.

He pulls out slow, drives back in gently with a roll of his hips. Their eyes are locked. He does it again.

“You want that, Loki?” he repeats.

It feels so good, to be beneath him and filled by him, breathing him in. She's terrified of him, of his strength and how damaged he is and how much she loves him. He's trembling too, from fear of rejection maybe, or perhaps just from holding back to fuck her slow.

She whispers, “Yes.”

He rocks down into her in a rush then, makes her gasp, and breathes into her hair.

“I knew that,” he says.

And then he's fucking her, really fucking her, with all the force of his hips and with his hands tight on her body. Her hip, angled oddly against his side, aches but she’s barely able to focus on it with the deep, deep punches of his cock inside of her.

“Touch yourself,” he orders, a growl, and she manages to slip her hand between them and rub in tight circles with two fingers. Less than half a minute of it, her own fingers and the rough jabs of her brother’s hips, and she's coming.

The tightening of her channel around him is so intense it's almost painful, and the friction begins to burn again as he fucks her through it, quick shallow thrusts now like he can't bear to be anywhere but inside her.

“Tell me you love me,” he says.

A sobbing laugh escapes her. They're so fucked up, both of them. She’s shaking and convulsing and gripping him, and whimpering over and over that yes, she loves him.

He comes with a sound akin to a roar, fingers bruising and body tightening in pulses as he empties himself deep inside, and she holds him through it.

In the immediate aftermath he slumps heavy onto her, still buried in her to the root, and mouths tenderly at her jaw.

“Thor…” she wriggles as much as she can, trapped and breathless beneath him.

He groans and drags himself up onto his knees, pulling himself free, and then he's staring down at her.

They watch each other, quiet, dazed, and then he reaches up to knock his knuckles beneath her jaw where his mouth just was. It's such a brotherly gesture.

She should feel sick all over again, full of his come and sore from his cock, but a contentment has settled over her. It's done now, and even if they could go back she knows she wouldn't.

He scoops her up into his arms and she clings to him, lets him lift her.

“What are you doing?” she murmurs as he kicks off his jeans and begins to move across the room.

He smiles. “I'm stealing you, little doll.”

-


End file.
